


How Sherlock Learned to Love the Dog Tags

by lucybun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-06
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/pseuds/lucybun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Sherlock came to have and learned to love John's dog tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted at LJ

John wanted them to wear rings. He felt some antiquated need to exchange baubles of affection and possession. They'd argued on and off about it for months. Well, John argued, Sherlock sneered and lectured about John's antiquated need to exchange baubles of affection and possession. Finally, after a gentle word from Mrs. Hudson, some long-winded pontification from Mycroft, and, finally, a rather pointed text from his brother that went something like, “Stop being such a difficult prat. Gregory says that you would be wise to put a ring on it,” he thought it might be time to be a bit less intractable.

It wasn't that he didn't feel affectionate and possessive toward John, too. He just didn't understand how jewelry entered into the equation. Why did he need a ring when he was with John all the time, anyway? He didn't need a reminder, a symbol, when he had the man right by his side. But he had promised at some point, when he must have been either terribly distracted by an experiment or blissfully fucked-out by a doctor, that he would make more of an effort to compromise. He was coming to the conclusion that this might be an issue worth such an effort. Besides, it would make John happy. He very much loved happy-John. And happy-John would be more likely to agree to the deep freeze he wanted to install than regular-John. It would also have the attractive side benefit of making everyone else shut up about it.

But compromise did not equal complete capitulation. He would agree to an exchange of some sort, but not rings. He didn't like rings. They were distracting, and he hated the feel of them on his hand. It felt like they choked his fingers. When he'd finally made his grand announcement that he was going to be mature and accommodating by agreeing to John's request in general but not on rings specifically, John had just nodded and said, “No rings then. We'll think of something else.” He felt a bit like thumping the little man for being so annoyingly agreeable. He'd actually hoped to buy himself another few months of bauble-free argument time with his opening salvo. Alas, it was not to be. There were times when he was frankly amazed that he was in a relationship with someone so painfully affable as John Watson. Not when he was over or under or in or surrounded by John, and not when John was steadfast by his side in all manner of dangerous escapades, but there _were _times.__

Fortunately, John immediately redeemed himself by demonstrating his pleasure with Sherlock's concession quite skillfully and forcefully on his person. He was feeling rather pleased with himself as he lay that evening plastered against John's side, sweaty and satiated. The doctor had been very pleased indeed. But now he was curious and apparently knew more than a bit about striking while the iron was hot.

“What else is on the list?”

What? How did the man expect Sherlock to be coherent when he could still feel deliciously warm cum dripping out of his arse? Had he full control of his faculties, he might have been suspicious that some sort of manipulation was afoot. But he didn't, so he wasn't. He just said, “I'm sorry?”

John kissed his shoulder and his chin, “I said 'What else is on the list?' The list of unacceptable baubles of possession. Is it just rings, then? Is everything else fair game?

Sherlock had to think on that for a few minutes. It took a moment for him to pull his mind from enjoying the delectable feeling of his leaking bum and cataloguing the taste of John's skin after he'd had nothing for supper but biscuits and determining the differences between that flavor and John after Chinese, Indian, Mrs. Hudson's pork pie, etc., etc.. Did he object to any other jewelry? Not on principle he didn't think. But, “No piercings. I see no point in mutilating my body or your own.”

“No. No, me either. No piercings. Well, that narrows the field quite a bit, then. Bracelets or necklaces are about it. So what'll it be?”

Sherlock had already moved onto testing the viscosity of his own cum that was cooling on John's stomach, but the back burner of his brain managed, “Necklaces then. A bracelet would just be annoying. It would get in my way, or I'd lose it somewhere. A necklace is fine.”

“I'm assuming you don't mean a pearl necklace, hmm?” he asked with a bit of a giggle as he watched Sherlock playing in the cum on his stomach, rubbing it between his long fingers.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from cum-tummy and looked up at him, aghast. “Pearls? God, John. Don't be ridiculous. We're gay, not old women. I never should have agreed-”

John cut him off with a kiss. “No, you idiot. I didn't mean a literal pearl necklace. It was just a joke, a bad joke.”

Sherlock tried not to be annoyed. He hated it when he was the one who didn't understand. But it happened sometimes with John. Usually when he was making some clumsy attempt at innuendo, which this apparently was based on the giggle and the post-coital timing of the remark. So he just filed it under “crude sex joke” and put it straight in his recycling bin.

“I don't really care what kind of necklace, John. Just get whatever you like. Something strong, though. I don't want to have to worry about breaking the thing.”

“All right. What about me?”

“What about you?”

“Don't you want to know what sort of necklace I would like?”

“Not particularly. I just told you that I don't care what you get.”

“I think you've got the wrong end of this one, mate. I don't buy both of them. If I just wanted something that I'd picked out for myself, I'd have already done that. The way this works is: I get you a necklace, you get me a necklace, and then we exchange them at a predetermined time, after which we engage in some very vigorous kissing and some very strenuous sex. Got it?”

He did get it. Now. However, he'd had no idea the massive awfulness of what he'd been getting himself into when he'd agreed to this. Dear God, he'd rather have dinner with Anderson than go shopping. For _jewelry _. He lay there with John's arm around his shoulders, his breath blowing softly into the curls of his hair, and calculated seventy-five different ways to get back at Mycroft for this whole mess. He wasted not one bit of brain power on figuring out how exactly this was Mycroft's fault, he just knew with the absolute certainty of all younger siblings that it was. But number one on the “Fuck You, Mycroft, For This Whole Damn Business” list was this: Sherlock was going to find the most ridiculously, fabulously expensive necklace that John could reasonably be expected to wear, and Mycroft's money was going to pay for it. That decided, he snuggled down into the crook of John's shoulder and slept the sleep of the righteous for his usual three hours.__


	2. Chapter 2

So, he did it. He went shopping. Sort of. Actually, one of Mycroft's people went borrowing. The morning after he'd agreed to the necklaces, he'd phoned Mycroft to make his very great displeasure over this whole nonsense known. He'd even informed him that he'd be the purchaser of said extremely, ridiculously expensive trinket. All of which his brother had taken in with infuriating equanimity.

Mycroft had readily sent out one of his minions to several acceptable proprietors and designers and had the fruits of her labor delivered to his office the next Thursday afternoon. Sherlock blew in sometime around tea with a “Let's get this over with. And I want biscuits. I know you've got fuckloads of biscuits around here somewhere.”

At which time someone wheeled in a tea cart complete with a three-tiered stand of plates loaded with pastries and biscuits. Sherlock grabbed a chocolate one off the second plate and snapped, “Where are they? You said everything was ready.”

“They're over there,” Mycroft answered with a bit of a wave. Sherlock grabbed some more biscuits and wandered over to the long table against the far wall to peruse the rather large selection of necklaces laying there.

Mycroft walked over to stand a bit behind his shoulder. “These are all gold, of course. And the pendants and chains can be purchased separately if you care to mix and match.”

Sherlock chewed on his second biscuit and leaned over to pick up a simple but sturdy looking yellow gold chain. It was not ornate, but it looked terribly strong and was obviously well made. “This one. I'll take this one.”

“Sherlock, you've barely looked.”

“I don't need to look more, Mycroft. This is it. And quit complaining. I had intended to get a massive diamond to match just to pay you back for talking me into this. Lucky for you I decided John wouldn't go for that sort of thing.”

Which was just as well. Because, though the necklace looked rather simple, it was in fact extremely artfully crafted by a very much sought after new designer. It cost more than any of the diamonds on display.

Sherlock's mind was made up, and the chain was perfect, really. It reminded him of John – all subtle strength and complex beauty. Mycroft's assistant brought in the jeweler's box that went with it and had the thing packaged and ready to go before Sherlock could finish the cup of tea he'd poured to wash down the biscuits. The whole process had taken less than twenty minutes.

He took a cab back to Baker Street and jogged up to the flat with a bit of a spring in his step. He had the necklace in his pocket so he and John could trade their chains and finally finish this ghastly business.

He walked in to find John sitting in his regular chair, sipping tea and watching the news. He turned as Sherlock strode over to lean down for a kiss.

“You look very chipper. Someone meet an especially gruesome end?”

“Sadly, no. But I got your necklace today,” he replied as he patted his coat pocket. “We can exchange them whenever you're ready and be done with it.”

John looked a little perturbed at that phrasing, but he mostly just looked surprised. Sherlock made an immediate deduction from his expression and pulled his own face into his smuggest smile.

“You didn't think I'd do it so soon, did you? You thought I'd delay and avoid until you had to back me into a corner. Wrong. As usual. It's bought and boxed. So when do we do this?”

Now John looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“You haven't bought yours yet, have you? Hah! I beat you to it. You were so eager to do this bit, and you haven't even picked something out. For shame, John.”

“Oh, shut up. It wasn't a competition, Sherlock. Just give me a few days. I do work, you know? And I don't have a brother with access to every jeweler in town.”

Sherlock's smile became less smug and more genuine at the doctor's shrewd deduction, “Very good. You're getting better and better, John. But no more playing around. We're doing this. And soon. Soon as in next Friday. You work better with a deadline, anyway. I should have thought of that,” the last bit drifting to John's ears from the hallway as Sherlock wandered off to his room. Which meant he didn't get to see the very real look of worry on John's face.

/************************

Two very boring cases and one mildly interesting one later, found them sitting in a casually romantic, very cozy, rather exclusive little bistro. Mycroft again, but neither man was complaining. Sherlock was relieved to do this in a public setting. It would curb any tendency John might have toward overt displays of affection. John would never be mawkish in the middle of a restaurant. So Sherlock tried to relax during dinner and even ordered the tarte tatin for dessert as this was a special occasion.

He finally lost his patience about half-way through his tarte and pulled out the box he'd been hanging onto for over a week. “All right. Let's do this.” He held out the box toward John and said, “I love you very much. Here is a token of such. Let us never speak of it again.”

John reached out to take the box and replied, “Oh, you old romantic, you.” But he was smiling as he said it, and his smile grew even wider when he actually opened the box. He sat there speechless for a few moments, just shaking his head, until he managed to find his voice and say, “Sherlock, it's...God, it's beautiful. It's perfect. Just perfect. Really. Just...thank you. I mean it. Thank you.” He looked up then, and Sherlock could actually see the happiness in his eyes. Well, that was all right then. He truly did love it when John was happy, and not just for selfish reasons. Just because.

So he, the one who had been dreading any public display of emotion, found himself rising to walk over behind John and reach out to clasp the chain around his neck. When he got it closed, he brushed his fingers over the chain and the skin on the back of John's neck and watched as the man shivered and goosebumps rose on his flesh. Sherlock kissed him on the top of the head and walked back to take his seat. John was absolutely beaming. Maybe this hadn't been such a bad idea, after all.

When Sherlock settled back into his seat, John brought out a box similar to the one he'd just received. Sherlock held out his hand, but John paused, a flash of uncertainty dancing across his face. His hand went up to the new chain around his neck as he said, “Mine is nothing like as nice as this. I...I just didn't know what to get you. I couldn't find anything that seemed just right. But I...well, I've wanted you to have these for awhile now and this seemed like a good time. I know you're not a big fan of sentimental-”

Sherlock cut him off by snatching the box out of his hand with an impatient huff and opening it straight away. It wasn't at all what he'd expected. He'd known John didn't have the budget to work with like Mycroft, so he'd been expecting something simple. A silver herringbone, perhaps. What he'd gotten instead was a set of dog tags issued to one Captain John H. Watson, Royal Army Medical Corps.

He pulled them out of the box to examine them more closely. John was still babbling something about “Lots of my mates gave their tags to their wives or partners.” and “I'm not trying to stamp my name on you or something.” Sherlock ignored him and brushed his fingers over the engraved lettering, over the black rubber dampeners John had put around the edges to keep them from clacking together, over the unusually long chain to which they were attached. When John saw him focus on the chain he added, “It's not the same chain. I had this one made special out of titanium, so it's lighter. You won't have to worry about it breaking, I promise, and it's longer so the tags won't mess up the line of your shirts. No one will be able to see them if you're wearing your jacket. Besides, I thought you might just like the idea of them being different.”

John stood up and walked over to him, took the chain out of his hands and looped it over his head. He kissed Sherlock on the nape of his neck above his collar and whispered “I love you, Sherlock Holmes” into the back of his hair. Sherlock tested the weight of the tags in his hand as John sat back down. They sat there, dessert forgotten, smiling in a very satisfied, very companionable silence while Sherlock took care of the cheque with Mycroft's card. But as they were walking arm in arm back to their flat, Sherlock asserted, “I think I'm ready for the vigorous kissing and strenuous sex now.”

John glanced up at him with a rather fierce look in his eyes and replied, “Oh God, yes.” They made it home in record time.


	3. Chapter 3

With The Great Necklace Exchange over, things went blessedly back to normal. John worked at the surgery when he wasn't chasing Sherlock all over London on cases. Sherlock had gotten used to the weight of the tags around his neck surprisingly quickly. The chain really was light, and the black rubber dampeners around the edges of the tags kept them from making noise. It wasn't long before he was able to forget they were there, the only reminder coming when John would sometimes catch a glimpse of them and get a rather dreamy smile on his face. To which Sherlock would either roll his eyes, ignore it, or snap “Pay attention, John!” depending on the situation. He had been pleased with how easily The Exchange had gone, and he'd been very happy to see John happy; but that was it, and he was very over the whole thing. Fortunately, John was right, the longer chain did keep the tags hidden under his jacket. If he'd had to endure the comments and questions from the Yarders or anyone else, he might have been forced to do something regrettable. Well, he wouldn't have regretted it, but John might.

But by Christmas he'd pretty much been able to delete the whole business with his final proclamation that John was not to expect a Christmas gift as Sherlock couldn't possibly be expected to go through that torture so hard on the heels of The Necklace. John just nodded, touched the chain around his own neck with that dreamy smile on his face, and said, “Of course.” Sherlock just scoffed, loudly, at him and went back to his experiment, glad to have put a firm period on the end of this and get himself out of Christmas presents at the same time. He truly was brilliant.

Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's (and, no, John didn't even try) all passed in a blur of work and experiments and their own version of domestic bliss. The end of February found them knee-deep in a gun-running case that seemed to be never ending. The group behind the weapons ring was like a damn hydra. Sherlock would cut off one head only to find two more to hunt down when various members either flipped on their colleagues or they got hold of more records during the various raids. Sherlock had been vacillating between ecstatic and frustrated for over a month before it appeared that finally, finally, they had managed to track down the actual ringleader. They'd run him to ground in a warehouse in Brixton and had been there when the tactical team took the man into custody.

John could feel relief and excitement surge through his veins as he stood in the cold air, blue lights flashing around him, his breath making little clouds in front of him. Sherlock finished up his business with Lestrade and began striding toward John as the DI yelled out a reminder that he'd be expected down at the Yard first thing to give a full statement. Sherlock had already tuned him out, though, because all of his attention seemed to have fixated on John. John felt his heart and breathing speed up as Sherlock prowled toward him with a calculating look in his eyes and a flush of excitement coloring his face. John knew that look. John fucking loved that look. Sherlock stopped in front of him with less than half an inch separating their bodies and purred, “Are you ready to head home, Dr. Watson. I think we may have some further business to attend to there.” John grinned, went hard, and nodded his emphatic agreement as they turned to find a cab back to 221B.

The ride back home was pure torture. Both of them sat in the back seat practically vibrating with need. There had been no time for pleasure while they were on the case, and the abstinence combined with the adrenalin rush had them both hard and panting before they'd even touched one another. John kept his head turned looking out the window because he couldn't be trusted to behave himself if he could see Sherlock. Sherlock sat turned as well, preternaturally still, keeping himself distracted by sifting and organizing information for the statement he would have to give the next day.

John, though, was fidgeting. Biting his lip, shifting around in his seat, tapping his fingers in a steady beat on his knee. Until he felt a warm gloved hand settle on his own hand over his knee, stopping the tapping and all other movement. The supple leather on the back of his skin, the weight of the hand on his leg, sent a trail of fire coursing through him. His cock twitched in his jeans and he lost the rhythm of his breath. Sherlock gave his knee a gentle squeeze. He probably meant for it to be comforting, a physical gesture that meant “Hold on, just hold on, we'll be there soon.” John had to shut his eyes and clench his other hand into a fist so tight that it hurt to keep from climbing right over onto the other man and shoving his tongue in his mouth and his hand down his pants.

An eternity later, they finally pulled up to the curb at home. John stumbled out of the car and headed straight for the door, letting Sherlock take care of the fare. It took him a few tries to get his key in the door, but he'd managed to get inside and take off his jacket when Sherlock joined him in the foyer to shuck off his coat and scarf. John turned and headed up the stairs, Sherlock hard on his heels. He'd made it about halfway up when he felt a long arm wrap around his waist as the taller man moved-up behind him on the step just beneath. He stopped dead, his back to Sherlock, unsure of what to do.

The arm around his waist tightened, and he felt Sherlock's coat-warm body press all along the length of his own. The way they were standing put their heads level with one another, and John could feel Sherlock's breath ghosting across his cheek, blowing through the short hair behind his ear. He turned his face slightly towards the other man's and whispered, “What are you doing?”

Sherlock didn't answer, just tightened his grip, nuzzled his nose into John's neck and pushed the collar of his jumper out of the way so he could bite down on the juncture of neck and shoulder. A ridiculous noise, half grunt have gurgle, spilled out of John. Sherlock's lips grazed up the side of his neck, licked the soft skin under his ear, and then bit gently on his lobe. He sucked it into his mouth while the hand around John's waist moved to the front of his jeans and began working on the button.

John panted out a panicked sounding, “Sherlock. You have to, ohhh, stop. Fuck, yes. I mean, no. Uhm. We're almost. We're almost there.”

Sherlock just reached into his now open jeans to squeeze his cock while he breathed, “Yes we are, John,” right into the man's ear.

John's ears started ringing and his vision went a bit dim. He grasped at the banister and pitched forward as he managed to choke off the shout that tried to tear out of him. Sherlock followed him forward and settled them so that they were both on their knees. Sherlock was kneeling on the step right below John, keeping them at what would have been eye level if they'd been facing each other but was cock to ass level as they were. Sherlock moved his other arm to circle around John's chest and placed his hand right over his heart. He pulled back with the hand so that they were both upright on their knees, flush against each other. John kept one hand on the banister and laid the other palm flat against the wall to keep himself upright. When Sherlock was certain he wasn't in danger of pitching forward again, he brought both hands back down to John's jeans and worked them and his boxers down around his knees. He hissed as he felt his ass and cock exposed to the air but it turned into a soft moan when he felt a long-fingered hand caressing his cheeks, running up the side of his thighs, squeezing his hips.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. “John, you have to be quiet. We wouldn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson,” he finished with a broad swipe of tongue up the side of John's neck.

John gave a bit of a hysterical giggle that clearly said, “You must be joking.”

Sherlock brought one hand up to cover John's mouth as he gave a firm tug to his cock. “Better? You need help keeping quiet, hmm?”

John gave a muffled “mmhmm” and tipped his head back toward Sherlock as the man kept working at his cock, brushing the head with his thumb and spreading the moisture that was starting to ooze there.  
John's hips quickly fell into the rhythm of Sherlock's strokes.

“John, I need my other hand. Can you hear me? I need you stay quiet.”

John managed a nod and sucked in air heavily through his mouth when Sherlock removed his hand. He heard the sound of a zipper opening behind him and felt Sherlock working down his trousers and pants. Sherlock's hand left his cock, and he felt the man pulling at the bottom of his jumper, lifting it up and urging John to raise his arms so he could get the thing off. Sherlock threw it somewhere further up the staircase then went to work on the buttons of his own shirt. When he'd pulled it open, he raised up back against John. The smaller man had to bite his lip bloody to keep from screaming at the feel of the warm skin against his back and the hot, hard, cock settling into the crease of his ass.

Sherlock went right back to work on his cock, and John's head tilted forward on his neck with something like a sob. “I cant. I can't do this. I. Sherlock. I can't.”

Sherlock stopped. “Shit. I shouldn't have thrown your jumper. We could've shoved the cuff in your mouth.”

“Not. Helping,” John hissed. “Just. The flat. _Sherlock _.” It was a whine. He knew it and didn't care.__

Sherlock's mind raced. They'd never make it to the flat. He didn't want to. What they needed was a gag. He could work off his shirt and shove a bit of that in John's mouth; but this was his favorite shirt, he didn't want to get a hole or a tear in it. What they needed was something leather or rubber. Unfortunately, neither of them had worn a belt. Sherlock shifted back a bit to help himself think then felt the dog tags that had clung for a moment to John's damp skin swing back to resettle against his own torso. Oh, of course! The dog tags! The dog tags with rubber dampening bands hanging right there around his neck. God, he really was a genius.

He moved right back up against John, lifted the front of the chain so it was draped over both their heads, and then flipped the tags right into John's gaping mouth. John immediately sucked them in and made a relieved sound around the bulk in his mouth.

“Okay?” Sherlock asked, and John breathed a sound of assent.

Their heads held together by the titanium chain, Sherlock pushed his own mouth hard into the back of John's head while he went back to work on John's cock. He used his other hand to push his own cock down to settle up against John's perineum and testicles. They didn't have any lubricant so penetration was out, but, as worked up as they both were, this would do. With the bit of his brain that had been working on not shouting, John was able to puzzle out what Sherlock had in mind and helped maneuver his lower body so he could bring his thighs in tight together to give the man the friction he needed. Sherlock muffled his own groan in the back of John's hair as his left hand gripped the doctor's hip for the leverage to thrust into the sweat-damp tunnel John had made. He used his right hand to begin working John's cock fast and hard.

 

Between the delicious feel of Sherlock's cock sliding under his balls, pressing against his perineum, and the steady movement on his own cock, John wasn't going to last long. Less than thirty seconds later, Sherlock could feel with his cock that John's balls were tightening up in preparation for orgasm. Five tugs later, the doctor bit down firmly on the rubber edges of the tags in his mouth to muffle the scream that rumbled in his chest as he came hard all over the stairs and Sherlock's hand. Sherlock stopped his own thrusting between firm thighs and moist crotch to work John through his climax with gentle strokes. When John started to go boneless in his arms, Sherlock reached around and pulled the tags from his mouth and the chain from around his head. Apparently, that's all that had been holding John up because he immediately fell forward up the stairs to rest on his elbows. Instead of following him forward and finishing between John's legs, Sherlock just focused on the delectable sight of John's upturned ass and began stroking his own cock using John's come as lubricant. A few moments later, as he was still trying to catch his breath and clear his vision, John heard a stifled grunt issue behind him and felt hot trails of come splash across his ass and lower back.

Sherlock slumped against the wall, trembling and twitching. They stayed collapsed on the stairs for awhile, trying to get some oxygen and regain control of their limbs. Finally John managed to rise back onto his knees. He looked back behind him and took in the flushed chest framed by purple silk and bisected by the chain of the still damp dog tags, the spent cock resting against a pale slim thigh, the damp mop of curls, and pink cheeks of the man he loved. He felt arousal start to pool again low in his abdomen.

“Sherlock,” he murmured.

Sherlock opened his eyes in answer.

“We need to get to the flat. I...I.”

Sherlock's eyes widened as he realized what John meant, then he smiled his happiest smile and started pushing himself up the wall of the staircase. He gestured jerkily towards their door and whispered, “After you, Doctor.”


	4. Chapter 4

As the weeks passed by and winter turned into spring, Sherlock tried to hide it. Once upon a time that wouldn't have been so very difficult, but John really was getting better at the whole observe and detect bit. He was quite aware that it was just a ridiculous point of pride that even made him want to hide it, but he'd never let the ridiculousness of anything stop him from doing it. So, he was careful. He made sure only to look at them when John wasn't home. He still kept them hidden under his shirts, even if it was just his ratty, grey t-shirt. He was ever thoughtful about keeping his hands off them, of not holding them or fiddling with them when he was pensive. All of which turned out to be completely for naught when John came home early from the surgery one Wednesday afternoon to find him asleep on the sofa with the dog tags in his mouth.

Just to be perfectly clear, he didn't walk around the flat with them in his mouth all the time. It was actually very rare for him to indulge himself that way. He'd discovered that having them on his tongue helped center him a bit, settle his thinking when his mind was stuck on fast-forward. He'd been working on a particularly crafty art theft that afternoon when he'd settled in on the sofa for a good think. He already had three patches on his arm, but they weren't completely helping. He just couldn't concentrate. After twenty minutes of being unable to sink into meditation, he glanced furtively around the room just to make sure the only eyes watching him were made of yellow paint, then he fished the tags out from under his shirt and slid them into his mouth. He immediately felt his body relax as he breathed out a relieved sounding sigh through his nose.

The whole "tags in the mouth" thing had started soon after the whole "sex on the stairs" thing. Sherlock had woken up the next morning pleased to have finally found a use for the things. He'd picked them up to give them a marginally fond once-over when he noticed the new little marks on the rubber dampeners. He'd walked over to the window to view them in better light and quickly determined that the marks were exactly what they looked like – bite marks. John had bitten down so hard on the things to help keep quiet that he'd left impressions of his teeth in the rubber.

Sherlock's world tilted for a moment and his breath snagged in his chest as he felt that marginal fondness grow into full-on affection. In one night those pointless little tags had become something rather filled with point. That permanent imprint meant the tags were no longer just something from John Watson, they were now something of him. He was surprised himself at what a monumental and immediate difference those little toothmarks made to him and his attitude toward the tags. He looked back at all the scorn he'd heaped upon John for his attachment to his gold chain and felt a little bad. Well, not really, but he realized that he should feel bad. If he had really caused any hurt to John he'd feel bad, but the doctor was used to him by now. He'd taken all of Sherlock's antics in stride. All that aside, he knew that if the doctor found out about this newly and quickly formed attachment to his dog tags, he would torment Sherlock to no end. John delighted in discovering little weaknesses like this in Sherlock, though John wouldn't call them weaknesses; he'd probably call them "sparks of humanity" or something equally nauseating.

So, when Sherlock jerked awake on the sofa to find John staring down at him and the tags resting in his mouth, he prepared himself for a long bout of teasing. There was really no way to squirm his way out of this one, so he decided to be magnanimous and let John have his fun. When he grew tired of being the bigger person, he could just pretend to be horribly hurt by John's words, which would stop the teasing and start the apologizing and maybe the kissing and then perhaps the giving of blow-jobs. After settling on that plan of action, he spit the tags out, sat up, and braced himself for the doctor's opening jibe.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Well, I was napping until you poked me in the middle of my sternum. Ouch, by the way."

"Stop it. Don't play stupid right now, Sherlock. I'm serious. What were you doing with my tags in your mouth?"

"Well, I rather thought they were my tags now so I don't really see how it's any of your business what I do with them. Why do you care?"

"Why do I care? Why do you think I care?"

This wasn't what he'd expected at all. John was..."Are you angry?"

"Yes. Well done. I am actually. I'm quite fucking angry right now."

"Why on Earth are you angry? You're supposed to be pleased that my humanity is showing or some such rot, tease me mercilessly about it, and then give me an apologetic blow-job."

"What the hell are you going on about? Have you taken something?"

"Yes, I took a nap, you idiot. I'm not the one who came bursting in here in a strop for no discernible reason. Have you taken something, Doctor?"

"Oh, shut it. Look, I'm sorry. That was out of bounds. But, dammit, I'm still mad at you."

"Yes, I get that part, it's just the reason that seems to escape me. What difference does it make if the tags were in my mouth? I though you'd be pleased that I'm acknowledging them at all."

"Yes, exactly. That's exactly it. You barely even acknowledged them before. You went along with the whole necklace thing in the first place just to humor me, and every time I showed some fucking sign of fondness over my own chain you acted like I was some sort of sentimental idiot. Then suddenly, miraculously after the damn tags got incorporated into our sex lives they suddenly seem to matter to you.

"Do you think I haven't noticed? I see the way you touch them through your shirt when you're thinking. I've seen you smile at them when you catch a glimpse of them in the mirror. I've seen you do all the same little things that I did with my chain because it meant something to me. None of that started until after that night on the stairs. And I've tried not to be angry. I've tried so hard to just be grateful that you even noticed them at all, tried to be grateful for the dregs of whatever emotion you were suddenly willing to attach to the things. But then I come in here and find you sleeping with them in your mouth, and, yes, I'm angry. I'm fucking furious, Sherlock, because it took some kinky sex to make you even acknowledge something that was meant to be a symbol of, of _us _. Is that all this is, all I am? A live-in fuck?" John was shouting by the end, his chest heaving and his hands balled into fists at his sides.__

Sherlock was completely and utterly shocked. He thought he'd been doing an admirable job of hiding his new fondness of the tags, but apparently John was far more observant than he'd been giving him credit for. His doctor was learning. Soon enough, though, the shock started lifting, but it took him a few moments to identify whatever else it was he was feeling. The problem was that it wasn't really just one thing. He was feeling a tangled jumble of regret and love and sympathy and contrition. The contrition took the longest to identify as this might have been the first time he'd actually felt it, but feel it he did. He also felt the accompanying need to set this right. Sherlock was willing to admit that the deduction John had made was quite reasonable based on the incomplete information he had, but he was wrong, nonetheless.

First things first. In his calmest, most soothing voice, Sherlock said, "I didn't realize that it hurts you when I'm disdainful of your sentimental side. I truly didn't think it bothered you. You never acted like it did."

"Well there was no point in it was there? And it didn't hurt me at first." John's voice had returned to normal volume, but his hands were still in fists and his breath was still coming fast.

"Still, I'm sorry. As for the rest of it, you've made an erroneous deduction, John. I can see how you came to your conclusion, but it's very wrong. I haven't fetishized the dog tags, that's not it at all."

"Then what the hell is it? Why do you suddenly care?"

Sherlock sighed. He didn't want to talk about this, didn't want to admit what was going on after he'd been so obnoxiously dismissive of the whole necklace bit. But as he watched his friend and partner quaking with fury and, now that he could see it, pain, he knew it was confession time.

"It isn't sudden. You're right, it did start that night on the-"

John cut him off with, "I knew it! I fucking knew it. How can you sit there and say-"

"John," he snapped, "let me finish." He reached up to take the tags from around his neck as he rose to step over to the doctor. "Look at them," he insisted, handing them over. "Look at them and tell me what you see?"

"I don't want to fucking look at them. I don't want to play 'what's John missing.' Just tell me what I'm supposed to be seeing."

So Sherlock tugged him over by the lamp and pointed to the rubber ring around the tags. "Do you see them?"

"Yes, the dampeners. What does this have to do with-"

"Look closer. Here and here." So John did until he finally saw the little indentations himself.

"There are bite marks. I left bite marks in them that night. So what?"

"So...so everything, John. That's it. That's what made the difference."

"Bite marks."

"Bite marks."

"Nope. Sorry, you're going to have to do better than that. How is that not about sex?"

"I like the bite marks themselves, John, not that they were created while we had sex or because they remind me of us having sex. I just like them, period. I like them because they're you, they're part of you. I didn't understand the necklace thing before because I don't need some piece of jewelry to remind me of you. But these aren't just some piece of jewelry anymore, now they're something more. These tags aren't just a symbol of you, they're like a...like a shadow of you, a footprint of you, a tangible imprint of John Watson preserved forever that I can wear around my neck. _That _I understand, _that _I can appreciate. So, you see, it's not about sex at all. It's just about you."____

John stood examining the tags for awhile. His breathing seemed to be evening out and the tight lines of his body relaxed a bit. He finally looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes and said, "Oh."

The taller man smiled ever so slightly, reached out to brush his fingers over the shorter, blunter ones still holding the tags, and replied, "Oh, indeed."

"Sherlock. I honestly don't know what to say."

"How about nothing? That would be a pleasant surprise, us not talking about this any further, just letting it be."

"Not likely."

"No, but hope springs eternal."

"But why did you have them in your mouth?"

"I don't know. I suppose it's some sort of oral fixation, perhaps because I wasn't breast fed as an infant," Sherlock snarked.

"Or maybe because you already had three patches on and you were still gagging for a smoke to help with your brainwork? That sort of oral fixation, perhaps." Now that he had a complete set of data to work with, John's accuracy was improving at an alarming rate.

"Perhaps," Sherlock agreed reluctantly, a bit of a smile playing about his features. He lifted his other hand to cup John's face and added, more seriously, "These are as close as I can get to having you with me when you're gone. I can remember every facet and corner of you perfectly in my mind, but these," he squeezed around John's hand holding the tags, "are more than just memory. They're a little part of you now. And you know how much I like putting parts of you in my mouth," he finished, humor flashing back into his eyes.

"And now we're back to the sex," John replied, rolling his eyes. "But the rest of what you said was truly lovely, Sherlock. I'll take what I can get."

"You get all of me, for whatever it's worth. It's never been just sex with you and me, you have to know that."

"I do, or I thought I did. It's just that sex is usually the easiest part of what we are now, and I was afraid that, to you, it was the most important part."

"It isn't. I will, of course, throttle you if you ever repeat this to anyone else, but this," he said as he placed his hand right over John's heart, "is the most important part."

John swallowed and blinked several times then pulled Sherlock's head down for a hard, wet kiss. When they came up for air, John took the chain and placed the tags back around Sherlock's neck as he said, "I love you, too."

They kissed again and again and eventually moved over to the sofa to wrap around each other. The kisses turned into touches and the touches into caresses until Sherlock finally got his apologetic blow-job and a rather unapologetic shag. They settled back into each others' arms on the sofa, John petting Sherlock's chest along the line of the chain, and Sherlock valiantly trying ignore the smug grin plastered on the doctor's face.

"Is there any chance of you not rubbing this whole business in my face at every turn?"

"I seriously doubt it. Look at you, you're like a big, tall candy bar. All dark and serious on the outside and squishy, sweet nougat in the inside. You're a walking Milky Way!" he exclaimed with a giggle.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock teasingly ordered.

"Why don't you make me," John taunted.

So he twisted him over flat on his back quick as a flash, and, when the smaller man's mouth gaped open in surprise, Sherlock flipped the dog tags right inside and pushed his jaw shut around them.

The doctor struggled half-heartedly under him, his muffled laughter spilling from around the tags. Sherlock tilted his head to run his tongue along the gold chain around his lover's neck and sighed, "I really am incredibly clever." John silently agreed.


End file.
